In Memory of Jim Morison (1943-1971)

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Some of you, who follow my blog, are already aware of my little obsession with the music of The Doors and it’s visionary message.

And today is one of the most important anniversaries in ‘The Doors calendar’.

Jim Morrison – its legendary leader, died exactly 42 years ago. He would be celebrating his 70th birthday in December if he was still among us. I can only imagine all these volumes of poetry, songs that never had chance to happen.

It seems as if his life passed by with the speed of light. Now immortalized. Living on tapes, pages and in hearts. Still driving them with passion, accelerating the pure joy of existence.

R.I.P.

          

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABUSED

Thank you God

we don’t know your motives.

You made us totally blind

take our hope

forced us into your giant trap

to bury us alive.

I’m alive but I’m dying

at the same time.

I hope you still have a good time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RESIGNATION

We are drifting with current

to our death

with silent resignation.

Mad animal in a cage.

We are convicted to death

I hope somebody

was having a good time at least.

Our world is a civilized slaughter-house.

We are standing in a line, well-dressed animals.

I don’t blame any one.

Sharp God, and we ignorant beasts.

Girl in a Red Cardigan

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little girl framed

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The British Museum London

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british museum

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Wisława Szymborska – Hatred

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wislawa szymborska

Wisława Szymborska

‘Hatred’

Look, how constantly capable
and how well maintained
in our century: hatred.
How lightly she regards high impediments.
How easily she leaps and overtakes.

She’s not like other feelings.
She’s both older and younger than they.
She herself gives birth to causes
which awaken her to life.
If she ever dozes, it’s not an eternal sleep.
Insomnia does not sap her strength, but adds to it.

Religion or no religion,
as long as one kneels at the starting-block.
Fatherland or no fatherland,
as long as one tears off at the start.
 She begins as fairness and equity.
Then she propels herself.
Hatred.  Hatred.
She veils her face with a mien
of romantic ecstasy.

Oh, the other feelings —
decrepit and sluggish.
Since when could that brotherhood
count on crowds?
Did ever empathy
urge on toward the goal?
How many clients did doubt abduct?
 Only she abducts who knows her own.

Talented, intelligent, very industrious.
Do we need to say how many songs she has written.
How many pages of history she has numbered.
How many carpets of people she has spread out
over how many squares and stadiums!

Let’s not lie to ourselves:
She’s capable of creating beauty.
Wonderful is her aura on a black night.
Magnificent cloud masses at rosy dawn.
It’s difficult to deny her pathos of ruins
and her coarse humor
mightily towering above them columns.

She’s the mistress of contrast
between clatter and silence,
between red blood and white snow.
And above all she never tires of
the motif of the tidy hangman
above the defiled victim.

She’s ready for new tasks at any moment.
If she must wait she’ll wait.
She said she was blind.  Blind?
She has the keen eyes of a sniper
and boldly looks into the future
–she alone.

by Walter Whipple

(original in polish)

Wisława Szymborska

Nienawiść

Spójrzcie, jak wciąż sprawna,
Jak dobrze się trzyma
w naszym stuleciu nienawiść.
Jak lekko bierze wysokie przeszkody.
Jakie to łatwe dla niej – skoczyć, dopaść

Nie jest jak inne uczucia.
Starsza i młodsza od nich równocześnie.
Sama rodzi przyczyny, które ją budzą do życia.
Jeśli zasypia, to nigdy snem wiecznym.

Religia nie religia –
byle przyklęknąć na starcie.
Ojczyzna nie ojczyzna –
byle się zerwać do biegu.
Niezła i sprawiedliwość na początek.
Potem już pędzi sama.
Nienawiść. Nienawiść.
Twarz jej wykrzywia grymas
ekstazy miłosnej.

Ach, te inne uczucia –
cherlawe i ślamazarne.
Od kiedy to braterstwo
może liczyć na tłumy?
Współczucie czy kiedykolwiek
pierwsze dobiło do mety?
Porywa tylko ona, która swoje wie.

Zdolna, pojętna, bardzo pracowita.
Czy trzeba mówić ile ułożyła pieśni.
Ile stronic historii ponumerowała.
Ila dywanów z ludzi porozpościerała
na ilu placach, stadionach.

Nie okłamujmy się:
potrafi tworzyć piętno.
Wspaniałe są jej łuny czarną nocą.
Świetne kłęby wybuchów o różanym świcie.
Trudno odmówić patosu ruinom
i rubasznego humoru
krzepko sterczącej nad nimi kolumnie.

Jest mistrzynią kontrastu
między łoskotem a ciszą,
między czerwoną krwią a białym śniegiem.
A nade wszystko nigdy jej nie nudzi
motyw schludnego oprawcy
nad splugawioną ofiarą.

Do nowych zadań w każdej chwili gotowa.
Jeżeli musi poczekać, poczeka.
Mówią, że ślepa. Ślepa?
Ma bystre oczy snajpera
i śmiało patrzy w przyszłość
– ona jedna.

View more:

‘Celebrating Szymborska’  /Culture.pl/

Wisława Szymborska – The Poetry of Existence /Culture.pl/

Wisława Szymborska’s Metaphysics – Reading /Culture.pl/

Self image – My Inverted Self

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Gargoyle from Chichester Cathedral

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Roofs and Moon

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Study of Iris

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Genius of Witold Gombrowicz

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Witold Gombrowicz w Vence.

Witold Gombrowicz w Vence. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If I was to pick only one writer who resembles all my deepest existential thoughts and feelings in most precise manner, I’d point Gombrowicz without a moment of doubt. I sometimes laugh to myself when reading his works. Like a skilled fencer Gombrowicz attacks the greatest social patterns and lies within himself and therefore within nations. Uncovers everything to a naked bone. Oh, how much I identify with his words!

 

I’ve found website solely dedicated to his literary creation. Click HERE to discover his genius.

 

Know that your country is neither Grójec nor Skierniewice, not even Poland itself, and blush with energy at the thought that the country is you! So what if you are not in Grodno, Kutno, or Jedlińsk. Has man ever lived anywhere else other than in himself? You are at home even if you were to find yourself in Argentina or Canada, because a homeland is not a blot on a map but the living essence of man. […]
I say: Don’t be crybabies! Do not forget that as long as you lived in Poland, not one of you was as concerned with Poland because it was an everyday event. Today, on the other hand, you no longer live in Poland so Poland resides more forcefully in you and it should be present in you as your deepest humanity, the polished work of generations. Know that wherever the eyes of a young man uncover his destiny in the eyes of a girl, a homeland is born. Whenever anger or admiration find themselves on your lips, whenever villainy is struck a blow, whenever the word of the wise man or Beethoven’s song ignites your soul leading it into unearthly spheres, whether it be Alaska or the equator, a homeland is born. On Saxon Square in Warsaw, in Krakow’s marketplace, you will be homeless vagrants, homebodies without a corner, wanderers, hopelessly crude moneymakers, if you allow pettiness to kill all the beauty inside you.
Diary, 1953 [Trans. Vallee]

original in polish

Wiedzcie, że ojczyzna wasza to nie Grójec, ani Skierniewice, nawet nie kraj cały, i niech krew uderzy wam na policzki rumieńcem siły na myśl, że ojczyzną waszą wy sami jesteście! Cóż z tego, że nie przebywacie w Grodnie, Kutnie lub Jedlińsku? Czyż kiedykolwiek człowiek przebywał gdzie indziej, niż w sobie? Jesteście u siebie, choćbyście znajdowali się w Argentynie lub w Kanadzie, ponieważ ojczyzna nie jest miejscem na mapie, ale żywą istotnością człowieka. […]
Nie bądźcie, mówię, mazgajami. Nie zapominajcie, że póki mieszkaliście w Polsce nikt z was Polską się nie przejmował, ponieważ ona była codziennością. Dziś natomiast nie mieszkacie już w Polsce, ale za to Polska silniej w was zamieszkała – ta Polska, którą określić należy jako najgłębszą ludzkość waszą, urobioną pracą pokoleń. Wiedzcie, że wszędzie tam gdzie wzrok młodzieńca odkrywa swoje przeznaczenie w oczach dziewczyny, tworzy się ojczyzna. Gdy na ustach waszych jawi się gniew lub zachwyt, gdy pięść godzi w łajdactwo, gdy słowa mędrca lub pieśń Beethovena rozpala nam duszę, uwodząc ją w nieziemskie kręgi, wówczas – na Alasce i na równiku – rodzi się ojczyzna. Ale na placu Saskim w Warszawie, na Rynku krakowskim, będziecie bezdomnymi włóczęgami, domokrążcami bez przydziału i wędrownymi, beznadziejnie ordynarnymi groszorobami jeśli pozwolicie aby trywialność zabiła w was piękność.
Dziennik, 1953

Quote taken from http://www.gombrowicz.net/

Ray Manzarek R.I.P.

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Ray

What a sad news I woke up to this morning.

Another member of band is gone. Band, that without any exaggeration had the most influence over the shape of my grown up life.

When you cherish someone or something as much as I do The Doors, than it is almost like loosing your dearest friend forever. I’m certain I’m not alone and there’s plenty of you out there woken up in your very core by Ray, Jim, Robbie and John.

Well, if there is any world beyond our human existence – which I strongly believe in – than somewhere up there is a great feast of friends going on at the moment.

We love you lots Ray. Enjoy your eternity my friend.

(Here’s more about it from CNN.)

Ray Manzarek gives us a tour of Venice and Santa Monica, talking about the early
days of the Doors.

My first last breath

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Do you believe in going beyond your last breath?

Like a runner at the end of marathon – will I last to acknowledge my achievement?

After all these years of soaring loneliness will there be a crowd of my own believers to tap my back with a warm ‘Well done!’?

Living proudly in state of obvious I had forgotten to ask.

I joined the rest of obedient in march under apparent sky

                          – everything is visible

                                                       there

                                                                  in front of my eyes

And then I see you collapse

and you see me – helplessly staring back

your hand reaching emptiness to non-existing saviour

please

give me one more day!

oh you stubborn, stubborn life that never knew itself

fist becomes loose –  you tried to grasp at something… but there’s nothing there powerful enough

never have

You’ve never been yours and I’ve never been my own

never have

helpless borrowers

                                                   AND THE SKY BURSTS                                         

                                                                              ROARS

until I fall into sleep exhausted and wake up hundred years later and find myself marching again

Who is that eternal thief to dare and steal my clear sight away?

Friedrich Nietzsche – Thus Spoke Zarathustra

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Nietzsche 1862a

Nietzsche 1862a (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

”There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.”

”O man, take care!
What does the deep midnight declare?
”I was asleep—
From a deep dream I woke and swear:—
The world is deep,
Deeper than day had been aware.
Deep is its woe—
Joy—deeper yet than agony:
Woe implores: Go!
But all joy wants eternity—
Wants deep, wants deep eternity.”

”And once you are awake, you shall remain awake eternally.”

”But the worst enemy you can meet will always be yourself; you lie in wait for yourself in caverns and forests. Lonely one, you are going the way to yourself! And your way goes past yourself, and past your seven devils! You will be a heretic to yourself and witch and soothsayer and fool and doubter and unholy one and villain. You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had not first become ashes?”

―     Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Why does internet browsing leave me empty?

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Allegoria della vita umana, Ol/tl, 110 x 86,5,...

Allegoria della vita umana, Ol/tl, 110 x 86,5, Collezione privata (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m frustrated again.

Left in a strong feeling of insatiability.

Pictures of pretty people in fashionable clothes, their glamorous lifes, advises on how to be ‘in trend’… It feels like someone is trying to foist certain way of life upon me. And it seems appealing at first glance – ‘icing-coated’ blogs where girls attempt to be girlier, bending realities to their own reflection in the mirror.

Vanity in its peak.

People making other people wanting… People getting jealous of other people… Have you ever come across the symbol of snake eating its own tail? Ouroboros.

And I remain frustrated, kidnapped from my very essence, stripped of my own unlikeliness. Again.

Human race! Where did you loose your metaphysics?

Does anybody suffer world-poisoning anymore? It was such a beautiful ‘illness’.

Hans_Memling_-_Triptych_of_Earthly_Vanity_and_Divine_Salvation_(front)_-_WGA14938

Sailing

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sailing 1111

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By the sea

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nad morzem

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Mighty Skies

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mighty skies SMALLEvery cloud has a silver lining.

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Adam Mickiewicz – The Great Improvisation

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    mickiewicz 

 Forefathers’ Eve 

The Great Improvisation

(Part Three, Scene Two)

 . . . Listen to me, God, and you, Nature! 
        Here is music that is worthy of you, songs that are worthy of you. 
        I am master!
        Master, I stretch out my hands! 
        I stretch them to the sky, I place my fingers on the stars. 
        They are my musical glasses, my armonica.
        Now swiftly, now slowly
        My spirit turns the stars. 
        Millions on millions of tones resound, 
        It is I who called them forth, I know them all;
        I combine them, I separate them, I reunite them,
        I weave them into rainbows, into chords, into strophes, 
        I scatter them in sounds and in ribbons of fire.

        I raised my hands, 
        I held them high above the ridge of the world, 
        And the wheels of the armonica suddenly ceased to whirl.
        I sing alone, I hear my songs
        Long lingering like the breath of the wind,
        They blow through all mankind,
        They moan like pain, 
        They roar like the storm. 
        Tonelessly, the centuries accompany them; each sound resounds and burns, 
        Is in my ear, is in my eye, 
        As when the wind blows over the waves, 
        In its whistlings I hear its flight 
        And see it in its coat of cloud.

        These songs are worthy of God, of Nature!
        This is a mighty song, a creator-song. 
        This song is force and power, 
        This song is immortality! 
        I feel immortality, I create immortality, 
        And you, God, what more could you do? 
        See how I draw my thoughts out of myself, 
        I incarnate them, 
        They scatter across the skies, 
        They whirl, they sing, they shine, 
        Already far away, I feel them still, 
        Still feel their charm, 
         I feel their roundness in my hand, 
        I sense their movements in my mind: 
        I love you, my poetic children! 
        My thoughts! My stars! 
        My feelings! My storms! 
        Among you I am like a father in the midst of his family, 
        All of you are mine .

        . . . Not from Eden’s tree have I drawn this power-
        From the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil-
        Not from books or tales that are told, 
        Not from the solution of problems, 
        Or the practice of magic. 
        Creator I was born: 
        I have drawn my powers from the source 
        From which you drew yours: 
        You did not search for your powers – you have them;
        You do not fear to lose them and neither do I!
        Was it you who gave me,
        Or did I, like you, have to seize it,
        This piercing and powerful eye:
        When I raise my eyes toward the track of the clouds,
        And hear the birds flying south on almost invisible wings,
        Suddenly, only by willing, I hold them as in a net with my eyes;
        The flock gives a cry of distress, but, till I release them,
        Your winds cannot move them.
        If I gaze at a comet with all the strength of my soul,
        It cannot stir from the spot while my eyes are upon it

Translated by Louise Varese

(original in Polish)

Dziady

Wielka Improwizacja

(Czesc Trzecia, Scena Druga)

Ty Boże, ty naturo! dajcie posłuchanie. –
Godna to was muzyka i godne śpiewanie. –
Ja mistrz!
Ja mistrz wyciągam dłonie!
Wyciągam aż w niebiosa i kładę me dłonie
Na gwiazdach jak na szklannych harmoniki kręgach.
To nagłym, to wolnym ruchem,
Kręcę gwiazdy moim duchem.
Milijon tonów płynie; w tonów milijonie
Każdy ton ja dobyłem, wiem o każdym tonie;
Zgadzam je, dzielę i łączę,
I w tęcze, i w akordy, i we strofy plączę,
Rozlewam je we dźwiękach i w błyskawic wstęgach. –

Odjąłem ręce, wzniosłem nad świata krawędzie,
I kręgi harmoniki wstrzymały się w pędzie.
Sam śpiewam, słyszę me śpiewy –
Długie, przeciągłe jak wichru powiewy,
Przewiewają ludzkiego rodu całe tonie,
Jęczą żalem, ryczą burzą,
I wieki im głucho wtórzą;
A każdy dźwięk ten razem gra i płonie,
Mam go w uchu, mam go w oku,
Jak wiatr, gdy fale kołysze,
Po świstach lot jego słyszę,
Widzę go w szacie obłoku.

Boga, natury godne takie pienie!
Pieśń to wielka, pieśń-tworzenie.
Taka pieśń jest siła, dzielność,
Taka pieśń jest nieśmiertelność!
Ja czuję nieśmiertelność, nieśmiertelność tworzę,
Cóż Ty większego mogłeś zrobić – Boże?
Patrz, jak te myśli dobywam sam z siebie,
Wcielam w słowa, one lecą,
Rozsypują się po niebie,
Toczą się, grają i świecą;
Już dalekie, czuję jeszcze,
Ich wdziękami się lubuję,
Ich okrągłość dłonią czuję,
Ich ruch myślą odgaduję:
Kocham was, me dzieci wieszcze!
Myśli moje! gwiazdy moje!
Czucia moje! wichry moje!
W pośrodku was jak ojciec wśród rodziny stoję,
Wy wszystkie moje!

I Mocy tej nie wziąłem z drzewa edeńskiego,
Z owocu wiadomości złego i dobrego;
Nie z ksiąg ani z opowiadań,
Ani z rozwiązania zadań,
Ani z czarodziejskich badań.
Jam się twórcą urodził:
Stamtąd przyszły siły moje,
Skąd do Ciebie przyszły Twoje,
Boś i Ty po nie nie chodził:
Masz, nie boisz się stracić; i ja się nie boję.
Czyś Ty mi dał, czy wziąłem, skąd i Ty masz – oko
Bystre, potężne: w chwilach mej siły – wysoko
Kiedy na chmur spójrzę szlaki
I wędrowne słyszę ptaki,
Żeglujące na ledwie dostrzeżonym skrzydle;
Zechcę i wnet je okiem zatrzymam jak w sidle –
Stado pieśń żałośną dzwoni,
Lecz póki ich nie puszczę, Twój wiatr ich niezgoni.
Kiedy spójrzę w kometę z całą mocą duszy,
Dopóki na nią patrzę, z miejsca się nie ruszy.

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By the sea front

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